Despite his resolve, Armande found himself sinking into the warmth of the supple leather chair as Rowan's strong skilled fingers drew the tension out from his body.
The flames were hypnotic, enhancing the burn of the liquor he sipped. He sighed as he took in his little...what did he call them. Family? Somehow, it didn't seem right. The term was nebulous, ranging from simple blood relations to religious brethren. It was too weak.
Whatever they were, they were bound into the fabric of the universe. Behind the illusion of Maya, they were connected, perhaps even one, or part of one thing.
Valeriya spoke, chiding him for his impatience. From another, he would have chafed. But from Valeriya, he only smiled fondly. She was the embodiment of joy and life- as if living in the caverns and darkness, the grime and blood and death, she had learned to see and take pleasure from every aspect of life.
In many ways, she was as innocent as a child- at least when it came to her openness to the world. She was not jaded and callous. For her, this was all an adventure.
And surprisingly, he found himself feeling a bit lighter. He looked at Rowan, noticing the missing eye- somehow it did not lessen her beauty. Strangely, it enhanced it, this visible reminder of the lengths she'd go to, the things she'd sacrifice for knowledge and place.
The three of them were a strange pair, he was sure, at least to others. And yet just sitting here, in their company, he felt more peace. The worry, the itch was there. It would not go away. But he was with them. That was enough.
The knock at the door called his attention but before he could stand, Rowan was up and taking care of it. The man at the door was familiar. A slight smile touch the corners of his lips as he took in this new revelation. Fletcher. It was a face he had not seen in a very long time.
He now wondered if his secret would soon come out. The new Regus was not a powerful man. Chosen for political reasons- appeasement for the Ascendancy chief among them- he would not command the respect Armande had. Fletcher might keep his confidence. There had been a time when Armande thought hr might be groomed as an eventual replacement. The man had been a promising apprentice, before Armande had become Regus. And then the return of the gods- and more specifically Apollyon- had taken all his focus. Those plans had never materialized.
But once again, the hand of Fate showed itself. Of all the Atharim among those following Patricus, he showed up. What that might mean would be interesting to discover.
Rowan was suitably respectful. Valeriya's comment on the men of the above made Armande laugh. He'd never thought Fletcher to be milk hearted. He did speak with a soft and light voice that some might consider weak. But a voice was not weakness.
Rowan's girlish playfulness with Valeriya sparked his interest, though, pulling his attention away from the priest waiting in the hall. Despite his desire to get answers, he found himself wishing they could schedule the meeting for the morning and enjoy the evening that had turned so promising. He didn't begrudge Valeriya's hungers. Radenyi was in her blood, after all. And he had his own, even if it was confined to the three of them.
He gave a put upon sigh as he allowed Rowan to help him change into something more formal for an audience with Patricus. Appearances and all that. He had been able to find a black cassock in an old shop months ago and yet had not ever put it on. It felt like another life. He was no longer this man.
But to the outside world, the appearance carried the necessary weight. It wasn't as fine a robe as the ones he had, but it was enough, long sleeved collared black wool flowing taut down his chest, held tight at the waist with a belt, hanging down to just below his knees over his black pants and booted feet.
Despite it no longer being his uniform, he did feel some of the virility of his youth. He turned and drank in The Eyes in all their beauty and power. Yes, more than some, really. Much more.
Damn the time. He went to them, taking their hands in his, looking down into their eyes. Blue and green shined up at him, fiery jewels flashing.
He smiled down at them. "Break them? Maybe. Let's at least see if they are on our side first." And see what the Pattern of Fate had for them.
They left the room and found Fletcher waiting. "Father Fletcher," He said, "How good it is to see you. We appreciate your escort." The blue ice of his eyes smoldered as they waited.
The flames were hypnotic, enhancing the burn of the liquor he sipped. He sighed as he took in his little...what did he call them. Family? Somehow, it didn't seem right. The term was nebulous, ranging from simple blood relations to religious brethren. It was too weak.
Whatever they were, they were bound into the fabric of the universe. Behind the illusion of Maya, they were connected, perhaps even one, or part of one thing.
Valeriya spoke, chiding him for his impatience. From another, he would have chafed. But from Valeriya, he only smiled fondly. She was the embodiment of joy and life- as if living in the caverns and darkness, the grime and blood and death, she had learned to see and take pleasure from every aspect of life.
In many ways, she was as innocent as a child- at least when it came to her openness to the world. She was not jaded and callous. For her, this was all an adventure.
And surprisingly, he found himself feeling a bit lighter. He looked at Rowan, noticing the missing eye- somehow it did not lessen her beauty. Strangely, it enhanced it, this visible reminder of the lengths she'd go to, the things she'd sacrifice for knowledge and place.
The three of them were a strange pair, he was sure, at least to others. And yet just sitting here, in their company, he felt more peace. The worry, the itch was there. It would not go away. But he was with them. That was enough.
The knock at the door called his attention but before he could stand, Rowan was up and taking care of it. The man at the door was familiar. A slight smile touch the corners of his lips as he took in this new revelation. Fletcher. It was a face he had not seen in a very long time.
He now wondered if his secret would soon come out. The new Regus was not a powerful man. Chosen for political reasons- appeasement for the Ascendancy chief among them- he would not command the respect Armande had. Fletcher might keep his confidence. There had been a time when Armande thought hr might be groomed as an eventual replacement. The man had been a promising apprentice, before Armande had become Regus. And then the return of the gods- and more specifically Apollyon- had taken all his focus. Those plans had never materialized.
But once again, the hand of Fate showed itself. Of all the Atharim among those following Patricus, he showed up. What that might mean would be interesting to discover.
Rowan was suitably respectful. Valeriya's comment on the men of the above made Armande laugh. He'd never thought Fletcher to be milk hearted. He did speak with a soft and light voice that some might consider weak. But a voice was not weakness.
Rowan's girlish playfulness with Valeriya sparked his interest, though, pulling his attention away from the priest waiting in the hall. Despite his desire to get answers, he found himself wishing they could schedule the meeting for the morning and enjoy the evening that had turned so promising. He didn't begrudge Valeriya's hungers. Radenyi was in her blood, after all. And he had his own, even if it was confined to the three of them.
He gave a put upon sigh as he allowed Rowan to help him change into something more formal for an audience with Patricus. Appearances and all that. He had been able to find a black cassock in an old shop months ago and yet had not ever put it on. It felt like another life. He was no longer this man.
But to the outside world, the appearance carried the necessary weight. It wasn't as fine a robe as the ones he had, but it was enough, long sleeved collared black wool flowing taut down his chest, held tight at the waist with a belt, hanging down to just below his knees over his black pants and booted feet.
Despite it no longer being his uniform, he did feel some of the virility of his youth. He turned and drank in The Eyes in all their beauty and power. Yes, more than some, really. Much more.
Damn the time. He went to them, taking their hands in his, looking down into their eyes. Blue and green shined up at him, fiery jewels flashing.
He smiled down at them. "Break them? Maybe. Let's at least see if they are on our side first." And see what the Pattern of Fate had for them.
They left the room and found Fletcher waiting. "Father Fletcher," He said, "How good it is to see you. We appreciate your escort." The blue ice of his eyes smoldered as they waited.